The Rain
by steeplechasers
Summary: My first attempt at writing fanfiction. Atmospheric, rather plotless description of a rainy day in at the flat.


The Rain

John Watson woke to the rain drumming softly on the wide window pane. The sky an indeterminate whitish-marrow-grey, raw and swirling, it could have been sunrise or 10 am or after noon. It didn't much matter. At some point the light snow had given way to a gentle drizzle, and any snow that had accumulated in the gutters across the street was long washed away. The slight gasp of cold air from the outside as he rolled over was more than enough to convince him that today was a stay-in-bed-pretending-to-be-sick-but really-very-much-enjoying-the-day. He pulled the comforter up to cover his head again and drifted in the haze of between-sleep for minutes, or hours, until the kettle went off, shrilly announcing that it had completed its task and would like to be taken off the hot burner as soon as possible, or it would bubble over and make a mess. John thought, odd, I don't remember putting the kettle on. He considered staying in bed and letting the apartment burn from the eventual fire, but thought Mrs. Hudson wouldn't appreciate that very much.

Moving in the morning sort of autopilot, he swung his legs from underneath the covers and haltingly stood up, then immediately yanked his feet away from the cold, cursing the bare floor. Slipping on his worn moccasin slippers (a gift, he suspected a re-gift, from Harry), John stood up again and ran downstairs to the kitchen, simultaneously pulling the kettle from the burner and turning off the stove, and jumped, burning his finger on the top of the kettle as he spotted the pile of what looked like an entire dismembered pig in a dozen plastic bags on the counter. Sucking on his finger, which stifled his curses, he turned to see a note from Sherlock, scribbled on a scrap of notebook paper:

tea on. specific heat water, temp stove (some scribbles that might have been mathematics) ready in 13 min. no milk.

From this missive, John gathered that Sherlock had taken some initiative for once and started making tea, realized there was no milk, and wandered off, leaving John to clean up after him. He hadn't seen Sherlock in his rush, and now he looked about, half-expecting his flatmate to be scribbling notes about John's reaction time to stimuli or response to gory things in plastic bags. No sign of him. John strode into the living room and froze, anger instantly forgotten.

Sherlock was curled on the couch, looking remarkably like a sleeping cat with a suggestion of contentment more in his features, his cheekbones and delicately slanting eyes, than in his calm expression. The resemblance was heightened by the immediate feelings of warmth and compassion that flooded John at the the sight of such an innocent, seemingly oblivious creature. It was miraculous that such a peaceful form could produce so much _noise_ in the waking world. He was still wearing his shoes and nothing for a blanket but his swishy coat, which had slipped down to barely cover his ankles. His neck was bare and very pale in the grey light, scarf fallen to the floor. John brought down the old quilt from his bed, still warm from his slumber and smelling slightly musty, wrapped it around the thin slope of hips and protruding shoulders. As John tucked a fold of quilt under Sherlock's chin, the sleeping man shuffled his legs closer inwards, shifting his weight just as a kitten in a deep sleep does to coil tighter for warmth, tilting his head and parting his lips.

John stood over Sherlock for a moment or two, watching him sleep. Then, as if afraid Sherlock would stir from the presence of his eyes alone, John stepped back quietly and turned for the door. Outside, down the stairs, John could hear the rustlings of street vendors starting up, the neighbors slamming doors repeatedly and making their way into the real world. John hesitated briefly then, padding back to Sherlock, pressed his lips lightly to the forehead that housed the brain of the world's only consulting detective. It must be like the vaulted heavens in there when Sherlock is thinking about a case, so smooth and endless, full of ideas, treated as a separate entity to his body, a higher being. Now, Sherlock's head was a part of his body, curling in with the rest of him to stay warm and to rest on through the morning's confusions. As John tiptoed out and shut the door behind him, Sherlock's mouth lifted just a little at the corner, rain still beating on the roof.


End file.
